Okay, but I love possessive, emotionally weak, and clingy men. Any love I might have had for jerks or womanizers just went to hell. Just Kazutora, Sanzu, Travis Meacham, Brahms (that damn jerk), Sweetly Slasher (he's an incel and a jerk, but I love him, sorry not sorry), Arthur Fleck, and Gary Barkovitch a little (the one from the movie), JD (the adult version). Anyway, I should write something about them, even though many are unknown. Is there anyone like me? (I'm so tired of writing about emotionally evasive jerks)
Threat of assault by original male character, violence/murder, non-con due to implied drug use, cunnilingus, mild dub-con, switch!Brahms, choking, loss of virginity, etc.
ＷＯＲＤ ＣＯＵＮＴ：5.9K
ＳＵＭＭＡＲＹ：You’ve been hired as a nanny for a wealthy elderly couple from the British countryside; what could go wrong?
That night, you jolt awake to the crash of glass shattering somewhere downstairs. You crawl out of bed with a sigh before stumbling your way towards the sound. Grumbling into the darkness as you fumble for the light switch, you call out, “Brahms?”
Lights on, you’re struck dumb by the sight of a man in the living room and your heart sinks as you make eye contact. He's wearing all black, shards from the windows cracking under his boots. He tackles you to the ground when you try to run, knocking the air from your lungs.
He pins your flailing arms to the floor with a grunt, pressing his knee to your spine to stop your scrambling. You let out a hiss when he yanks your head back with a grip of your hair, heart racing as you try to think of a way to get him off of you. Fear renders your mind useless for a moment before you’re forced to pay attention to his words. “I didn’t believe the old man when he said the Heelshires left a pretty thing all alone in this big house,” he laughs. “It must be my lucky day, eh?”
You thrash wildly, gasping when he knocks your head against the floor in retaliation. You blink away tears and grit your teeth, the pain bringing you to the present. “Get the fuck off of me!” You scream.
He laughs, the waft of stale cigarettes and liquor making you recoil with a gag. Desperation floods your mind and you shout the only words you can think of: “Brahms! Help me, please!”
The man pauses before scoffing. “I know you’re the only one here,” he says. “Unless you actually believe that shite about a ghost?”
Tears spill down your cheeks as your throat constricts. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you much, so long as y—”
A rattling force interrupts his threat, a deep groan echoing through the walls. Lamps flicker as the portraits hanging around the room tremble and knick-knacks crash to the ground faster than you can keep track of. Your breath catches when every light in the room crackles and dim, sending the room into near darkness.
There’s a beat of silence as your heart jumps to your throat. You can’t quite make out anything, but you hear the drawn out creak that lures the man into turning towards the sound. The pressure on your back weakens as he mumbles, “What the hell?”
The lights brighten and the first thing you see is the imposing face of the grandfather clock, swung to the side to reveal a dark opening. Taking advantage of the distraction, you try to free yourself. The man is struggling to wrangle you back under control when you hear a voice coming from the clock. It says your name, calling for you in that childlike cadence. Relief swells inside you, ready to pop.
Brahms.
What emerges is kind of what you expected, in the back of your mind— the primeval fear you couldn’t voice. Not a spirit or, god forbid, a ghost.
Pale, human hands grip the frame of the clock— materializing from its darkness, connected to even longer limbs. It feels like your entire world comes to a standstill as the figure emerges. Your heart jackrabbits as you watch the man crouch down to fit massive shoulders through what you now realize is a door, a cricket bat gripped in his large palm. His face is covered with a porcelain mask resembling the doll you tucked in earlier. “Brahms,” you breathe.
The man— Brahms stands well over six feet, hairy chest heaving with growling breaths. His bloodshot eyes dart over you before they snap towards the burglar, who curses and tries to flee.
Your eyes consume every inch of the very real, very strong man as he overpowers the intruder. It’s almost comical, how quickly your assailant is subdued despite the frantic slaps Brahms is deflecting with one hand.
He lifts the bat with the other and swings it against the man’s temple, knocking him down with a loud thud. He falls to the floor but Brahms doesn’t seem to care, climbing on top of him and slamming his head against the floor much like he’d done to you. He raises the bat again and the man tries to hold him off, lifting his hands to stop it from hitting its mark.
It doesn’t work.
You cover your mouth to stifle a scream as blood splatters your face and Brahms’ mask with every violent ‘swoosh’ of the bat. Brahms reduces the intruder’s skull to a ghastly sight with brutal force and you hear him take his last breaths before falling silent.
Dead.
You’d be ashamed, later, of the satisfaction you feel filling your chest, the pleasure you take in watching him die. But for now, this demands your attention. The metallic smell of blood hangs over you, silence broken by Brahms’ panting and your uneven breaths.
“Whatever it might look like on the outside: our son is here, he is very much with us.” Mr. Heelshire said.
You remember nodding politely, glancing around the large garden. Mr. Heelshire’s voice drew your attention to his solemn, pitiful look. “Do you understand?” He asked.
“Yes,” you replied absentmindedly.
A lamb to slaughter.
Brahms takes a step forward, pausing when you scramble away from him. You won’t be able to get away, you think as you stare at him. You flinch when he says your name with that childlike inflection. “Don’t go,” he whispers.
His meek demeanor doesn’t fool you one bit— his eyes trail over you, body rigid with tension. Your heart quivers as he begins to plead. “Please. Don’t go, I’ll be good, I will.”
You smother the part of you that feels indebted to him, telling yourself you wouldn’t even be considering staying if he hadn’t just saved you. You’ve almost gathered enough courage to run when you hear tires pulling up the driveway.
Malcolm.
Your escape attempt is as futile as you predicted, but you give it the effort it deserves. Brahms pounces, curling his bicep around your throat with palm covering your mouth. “If you try anything, I’ll kill him,” he threatens, childish ruse abandoned as he growls in your ear.
It’s the same voice from the attic, from your so-called dream. “Fuck,” you whimper.
Brahms drags you to the grandfather clock and through the darkness of the walls, pushing past a door into a space filled with amenities. Including a bed, which he sits you on the edge of. Curls damp and chest heaving, he cages you in between his arms. You flinch when he leans down to press his mask to your forehead and note, with a touch of hysteria, that he smells like your body wash. You spend what feels like forever sitting there with him panting over you, wound tighter than a spring.
Long enough for you to understand that killing you is the last thing on his mind. And for you to admit that you’re not appalled by the idea, eyes shamefully trailing over his body. In fact, every shaky exhale of breath Brahms lets out makes your stomach clench in girlish anticipation of his next move. But it seems he’s not sure what to do now that he’s got you here.
It’s not like you’re not creeped out, but you’re not terrified like you were earlier. Sure, he’d been watching you for months but you can’t focus on much besides the fact that it was him in the attic. You wave away the nervous flop of your insides as you try to keep your thoughts on track. He’s still clinging to the illusion of your power over him, but you’re not sure how to use it to get out of this.
Or if you truly want to.
You force yourself to meet his gaze once your heartbeat has calmed down. You must’ve achieved the confident glare you were aiming for because Brahms bows his head like a scolded child, placing his arms behind his back. It was hard to believe this was the same person who just bludgeoned a man to death.
Before you can get any ideas, you hear Malcolm pounding on the front doors. Brahms snarls as his grip tightens on the bloody bat you didn’t realize he was still holding before pulling away from you. “Wait!” You say and he freezes, peering at you. “Thank— thank you for helping me earlier, Brahms.”
He tilts his head, eyes glued to your face. “I-I was really scared, y’know?” You confess. “That— that he was going to hurt me.”
Those eyes rove over every inch of your body as you speak and you’re hypersensitive to how little you’re wearing: a flimsy tank top over worn out shorts that haven’t fit properly for years. “You don’t want to hurt me, do you, Brahms?” You force yourself to ask.
He shakes his head slowly and you figure that’s good enough for now. Inevitably, you consider what he did want to do with you. There’s a body pillow wearing your dress on the bed that you can’t think about if you want a chance of appearing at ease and a pesky, persistent thought that’s been bugging you since watching him emerge from the walls: he’s fucking hot. Everything about him is jarringly attractive, from the slope of his shoulders and thick biceps to his unkempt beard.
His curls sway with every ragged breath as he waits for you to speak again. Your eyes are eventually drawn to the hard-on he’s sporting, proportional to the rest of his lanky body. In the distance, Malcolm starts yelling your name.
Brahms goes rigid. “Don’t hurt him,” you plead. “Please, Brahms.”
His eyes dart over your face. “He wants to take you from me,” he argues.
You shiver; after watching how he handled the burglar, you know the grocery boy doesn’t stand a chance. “You were going to leave me for him,” Brahms accuses,
“Wha— Brahms,” you stammer. “I-I’m your nanny, I wouldn’t leave you!”
“You’re lying,” he murmurs, which is— fair. “You like him, you were going to sleep with him.”
Right, he’s been listening to your conversations. “Brahms, that— that’s not true!” You protest.
You might have been considering it, but that was only because you’d been left bereft of any other contact for months. “I won’t let you leave me.” He insists, crowding your space. “I chose you, not him!”
You flinch when he grabs your hand, the one with the ring on it. “You’re mine,” he growls. “You accepted my gift, you belong with me.”
Your stomach churns; there goes your hope of convincing him to let you go. Looking back, no wonder Malcolm thought you were going crazy. How could you have tried to justify a spirit being behind all of that? Now you’re fully aware of the true motive behind the jewelry: a twisted proposal from the man in front of you.
“I’ll be the one to take care of you,” he says. “And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
Intending to follow through on his promise, he pulls away from you. “Brahms!” You shout. “You are being a really bad boy right now.”
He flinches and you’d laugh if you weren’t trying to imitate Mrs. Heelshire’s no-nonsense tone; Malcolm’s life depends on you convincing him to stay. You never thought you’d be glad for the time spent catering to the doll, though it’s hard to deliver scolding lines to a sociopath a foot taller than you. “Were you lying when you promised to be good?” You question.
There’s a pause where you're sure he’s going to do as he pleases before his shoulders slump. He returns to your side, dropping the bat and, ignoring caution, you raise a shaky hand to ruffle his curls with a soft, “Good boy.”
You’re not expecting him to drop to his knees and rest his head in your lap, forcing you to awkwardly cradle him between your thighs. He stares at you with a reverence that almost makes you uncomfortable, as if you’ve hung the moon and the stars. You try to remind yourself that Brahms’ perspective isn’t one you should lend credence to, even if his obsession shines a light on a gnarled part of you. It shudders at the exposure, relishing in the depth of his yearning and lapping it up without regard for any consequences.
He was offering never ending, all consuming passion that you’ve been waiting your whole life for. The kind you told yourself would never happen. The desire for which made you leave home to escape the dreadful feeling that you’d end up dying surrounded by people who overlooked you. A collision of two rogue stars.
Like he said: he chose you. If you were looking at things from a purely materialistic perspective, would anyone else be willing to give you the things Brahms could? Hundreds of millions isn’t something you’re willing to run from without a second thought.
He wasn’t perfect, but what man was? The warmth of his body against yours as he clings to you, the imperceptible tension in his spine— a tamed beast laying at your feet, does something to you. Would you ever find anyone as devoted to only you?
It gets harder to be reasonable the longer you run your hands through his hair. No solution would be found in your judgement when he makes your heart ache like this. So small, prostrating himself before you.
A poignant silence signals Malcolm’s eventual departure and you pull your hand away with only a bit of reluctance. Brahms groans like it pains him to be deprived of your touch. A lot about this shouldn’t turn you on, but the way he gazes at you with those pitiful eyes seals the deal. Eager to sink your teeth into this affection, were you that different from the man in front of you?
Before you do something stupid, you place a hand on his shoulder. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your arm trembles as you push him away, fighting the desire to pull him closer instead. “It’s time for bed, Brahms,” you say, ignoring your silly thoughts.
If you could get him to go to sleep then you could plan your next move. It’s too bad he looks at you as if you’re the crazy one. “Brahms!” You scold. “You know the rules.”
He gauges your sincerity before habit wins; it is past his bedtime after all. He rises from the floor, glaring at his bed with all the sulkiness of an eight year old boy. You need a fucking Oscar for how straight you keep your face as you rise to tuck him in beside the doll he’s made of you.
It’s almost…cute.
“Be a good boy and go straight to sleep, okay?” You murmur, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
It dies down pretty quickly when you see how he’s watching you. You try not to gawk back at him, feeling your face heat up at the intensity of his stare. Moments pass as you gaze at one another before Brahms breaks the silence. “Kiss?” He presses in that weird voice.
Your conscience makes one last protest, but it’s quickly silenced as you bend over to press a kiss to the mask’s lips. You wince at the metallic taste of the blood coating the porcelain before wide palms seize you.
You’re pulled off your feet by Brahms placing you on the bed in a smooth motion. The display of strength shouldn’t make you wet, but your traitorous body loves every moment. Perhaps Brahms can smell it on you, the willingness to let him cross that line as arousal pools in your gut and between your thighs.
His body dwarfs yours as he looms above you, hands inching towards every sliver of exposed skin like he can’t decide where to touch first. He caresses your clavicle before sliding his long fingers to your sternum, resting a wide palm over your rabbit heart. Your eyes widen when you notice the metal band around his ring finger, the other half to yours. It glints in the low light and you swallow.
“Kiss?” He rumbles, breaking you out of your thoughts.
Heat suffuses your body as he waits for some sort of protest. But you’re done protesting, especially with him this close. He moans at the press of your lips against the mask when you muster the courage to bridge the gap between you. His large hands rise to tilt your head into another mockery of a kiss right after the first one.
The bed creaks as he overwhelms you with his presence, caging you between his long legs. Brahms ‘kisses’ you again, letting out a low growl of frustration as the porcelain clinks against your teeth. He pulls back and you hold your breath as he violently tugs it off, revealing his handsome visage to you. One side is smooth, the other rough and pink with scar tissue.
Crystalline eyes gauge your reaction before he bows his head, shying away from your blatant stare. Your lingering reluctance vanishes as you lean forward, pulled by the urge to reassure him. He whimpers when you caress his scarred cheek, nuzzling into your palm. His lips are warm when finally you kiss them. The kiss is hesitant at first and then searing.
Emboldened, Brahms kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His hands move to your hips, squeezing your softness between his fingers. You pull away with a whine and Brahms looks down at you, eyes trailing voraciously over your body.
“You make such beautiful sounds,” he says, before gripping your thighs. “Especially when you’re cumming.”
You can’t be sure exactly when he’s referring to but your face flushes all the same. “I want to hear them now.”
His expectant tone and the way he immediately forces your thighs apart bring to mind Mr. Heelshire’s comment on overindulging their son. His eyes slide from your face to between your legs, thin rings of an indistinguishable color swallowed by its pupils. Then his hands move to the edge of your shorts to tear the flimsy fabric off of you, revealing your slick entrance for him to marvel at.
He scoops your thighs into his wide palms and pulls you closer, lifting you off the mattress. “So pretty,” he says, leaning forward. “Your cunt is so cute.”
Your face is on fire as you squirm in his iron grip. Despite how embarrassed you are, the earnest praise kindles the flame in your core, slick from your drooling entrance. Brahms can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your wetness, captivated by the sight of a tear of slick rolling down your thigh. It plops onto the sheets and you yelp when he abruptly tugs you closer. His tongue laps at the slick between your thighs before making his way to your glistening lips.
A ravenous noise escapes your chest as he devours you. Brahms drinks from you like you’re an oasis in the desert, or mana from Olympus, with audible gulps of your slick. The bridge of his nose grinds into your clit as his tongue chases every pearl of precum beading from your cunt. Lips meshed to your sticky vulva, his tongue pushes past your quivering opening and thrusts against your walls.
He doesn’t seem to mind when your thighs snap shut around his ears, content to suffocate between them. “More,” he demands, something hungry staring up at you from behind his eyes when you look at him.
He seems to be enjoying it almost as much as you are, grinding your hips against his face. Lashing every ridge of your walls with the pointed muscle, he plunges in and out of you with gusto. The vibration of his moans push you over the edge embarrassingly quickly as you squeal. Brahms’ grip on your thighs tightens when your convulsions threaten to separate him from you.
Your head spins as he lays you back down without parting from your pussy. He pulls out briefly to slurp at your clit, flattening his tongue over the pulsating bud. His tongue glides back and forth as he moans at your taste. A second orgasm follows quickly when he doesn’t relent, gripping your thighs to roll your hips harder against his mouth.
He doesn’t stop when your hands fly to his head and yank forcefully on his curls, riding the crest of another orgasm. You’re pretty sure he could do— has done this for hours from the way he refuses to be parted from you. You grit your teeth, fighting the heat turning your body to jelly. You ignore his growl of protest and he ignores your attempts to tug him off of you, much too weak to have any effect.
Brahms moves to return to your entrance before you dig your nails into his shoulder, grateful when he lets you hold him back. “No more.” You say. “I want you.”
He doesn’t need to hear any more than that, tearing at his clothing before you can think to help him. Your mouth drops open at the sight of his cock. It’s intimidating, just as long as the rest of him, tip flushed red and dripping with the remnants of orgasm. You consider the possibility that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew as Brahms makes space for himself between your thighs. Your pussy throbs when he seats the veiny inches of hefty girth against your mound; you suppose you could stomach missionary if it made him look like this.
Dumbstruck and mouth trembling like he’s about to cry, Brahms seems content to cum this way. His hips rut into yours none too gently, gaze laser focused on the sight of his cock sliding back and forth between your syrupy lips. The sound it makes is filthy and the whimper he lets out when his mushroom tip nudges your clit is particularly pathetic. You push forward when it looks like he’s close and wrap your fingers around the base of his length, marveling at how hot and hard it is. His entire face is red, eyes wet as he pants, flinching at your tightening grip. “Are you trying to cum without my permission, again?” You question, peeved.
He shakes his head after a moment and you scoff in disbelief. “Liar,” you scold. “Don’t move.”
Brahms obeys with gritted teeth, eyes never straying from your pussy as you guide him to your entrance. You nearly bite through your lip because frankly, it fucking hurts. You take him slowly, impatience tempered by the sting as you push past the initial resistance before breaching your syrupy insides. It feels like you’ve been punched in the chest when he sinks into you, a throbbing heat nothing compared to what you pictured leeching its way into you.
Your core tenses, hungry for more and wary as your body implodes with sensation. Distantly, you hear him blubbering above you, but you pay him no mind. You’re too busy trying to remember what it’s like to have how to breathe. All you feel is him, hot and heavy, like a lung full of smoke.
Eventually desire wins out and you dig your heels into his back, driving him deeper into you. The sound he makes as his pelvis meets yours is shattered, yanking you back down to Earth. You gasp, blood humming. “You—” he mewls, voice like he’s swallowed glass.
There are tears pooling in the corner of his eyes and you feel them plop, plop, plop! onto your skin. His cock throbs as its tip reaches the spongy wall of your cervix. Your core pulses hot and tight around his length, a delicious mix of pleasure and pain as the thick, bulbous head of his cock carves a space for itself. “I-I can’t—” Brahms sobs.
You cup his face, sliding your hands into his unkempt beard. There’s no turning back now, you think vindictively. “You can take it.”
He moves slowly, as if he can’t help himself. You moan encouragingly, fingers gliding over his scar. He whines, face screwed tight as his hips pull back to rut into yours. Your snug walls cling to the swell of his thick cock with every forceful thrust, knocking loose something wild. Something that might have been better off left untouched.
You tuck the thought away, urging him to go faster. His shoulders tremble with every roll of his hips into yours, tears spilling over onto his cheeks as he lets out broken cries that he muffles in your neck.
“You wanna be a good boy, don’t you?” You ask, smirking at his desperate nod. “Then keep going.”
He barely pulls out with every shallow thrust, reluctant to leave your warmth despite the pleas for mercy leaving him. “You gonna cum?” You question.
Brahms huffs in affirmation, a visible pulse in his neck from the effort it takes to restrain himself. You slide your hand down to his nape, gripping his curls in your fist before pull him into an open-mouthed kiss. His submissive whines don't match the way he bullies his cock against your walls over and over.
“Hold it,” you order.
He keens like a wounded animal, gazing at you with an imploring expression. Despite the order, you’re close. Clamped around Brahms like a vice, every plunge of his cock is like a brand to your sensitive walls. He obeys, but you can tell that he isn’t going to last long. The bob of his throat as he swallows a groan of despair, hips rolling into yours with an animal instinct, pushes you over the edge.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head, back arched as you cum, soaking his cock in your juices. Brahms doesn’t hesitate to press his advantage as you succumb to the rush of pleasure. He pulls out with a groan before slicing through you in a single thrust, watching the way your cunt flutters around his cock. Any power you might have had is wrenched from you when he grabs the meat of your thighs, pushing them to your chest to slam into you.
You can’t think— fuck, you can barely breathe. You scream beneath him, hands clawing at his shoulders to cope with the way you break at every deliberate clap of your hips together. You ride what feels like the wave of one, two, three? orgasms. Brahms’ relentless drilling of his hips rob you of any choice in the matter, stars exploding behind your eyes as your body convulses. “You’re mine,” he huffs. “I won’t let you leave me!”
You wail at the force of his strokes, thighs trembling as you gush around his length with a sound that makes your ears burn. You feel as if you’re floating, awash in a sea of pleasure that’s beginning to border on pain. Brahms doesn’t seem to care when he orgasms either, honing in on your g-spot soon enough and smashing into it mercilessly. “You’re mine, mine—”
You’re barely able to meet his matching glassy gaze when he grabs your face with one hand, tilting your gaze towards where his cock was disappearing into your slick, cum soaked channel. “Say—say it.”
He spits the demand out between clenched teeth, jaw tight as he approaches another orgasm. You can’t hear yourself over the sound of your heartbeat but you think you stammer, “I— I’m yours, Brahms.”
“Again,” he orders.
There was no more of that shy, timid boy Mr. Heelshire described. It gives you whiplash, how quickly he’s gone from begging to demanding. You yelp something that seems to satisfy him enough to have mercy on you. But it doesn’t last long before Brahms is drawn to your mound, sliding his fingers over your slippery clit.
You have to admit that you’re already exhausted; you’d much prefer the docile, whimpering creature over this feral one. You summon the little willpower that hasn’t been fucked out of you by his steady decimation to dig your nails into Brahms’ chest. “Wait—” You gasp as he knocks the breath out of you with another wet plap! “Brahms, wait!”
Your frustration reaches its peak and you drag your nails down his chest. He doesn’t flinch as red lines bloom on his pale skin, too occupied with fucking you senseless. Furious, you grab his throat with both hands, squeezing as if your life depends on it. His his jerk before slowing down long enough for you to get your bearings.
You consider for a second, not stopping. Reality is humbling. If you let him run wild, you’ll never be able to keep up. Brahms must sense the blood-lust in the air because he stops moving. You take a moment to catch your breath, pulling your hips back with a scathing expression.
You get on top of him before he tries to test his luck, legs trembling. He groans your name, pleading with a buck of hips and you dig your nails into the pulsing cords of his neck. “Don’t move,” you hiss, leaving no room for argument. “Nod if you understand me.”
Brahms stares for a moment before nodding slowly, tense with suppressed desire. Irises swallowed by their pupils rake over your face and down your body as you lift yourself over his hips. “Keep your hands to yourself,” you order, glaring at him. “Nod if you understand.”
Brahms nods roughly, eyes glued to your cunt as you grind against his length, coating him in the remnants of your combined release. It was overwhelming when he was spearing you open, but the slow push of his cock is like a cool balm to the ache that’s been building in your core.
A wrecked call of your name and the sound of creaking metal makes you open your eyes; you could cum just from the sight of the man under you. Face, ears, and shoulders flushed red and chest heaving, Brahms’ face is streaked with tears as he grips his bed-frame. It practically crumples in his grip and you clench around the searing heat of his cock as it licks up your spine until it feels like you’re going to melt into a puddle.
You look down at Brahms, committing the sight to memory. You’ll be damned if you let him take control again when he looks so perfect under you. You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“You’ll be a good boy?” You couldn’t accept anything other than complete obedience.
“Yes!”
“Promise.”
“I promise!”
“Hm. I don’t believe you.”
“I- I will!”
“How?”
“I’ll keep you looking pretty, so pretty an— and soft. Like a respect—respectable husband should.” Your stomach flips as he grabs your hand, giving the ring on your finger a chaste kiss before dipping his tongue between your fingers.
He holds your gaze. “I’ll—I’ll be a proper daddy, I’ll take— take care of you,” he says in a pitiful tone. “Forever, I’ll do any- anything, please, just don’t— don’t leave me.”
You watch with wide eyes as he parts his lips to take your fingers into his mouth with a moan. It takes a lot of willpower to maintain the slow roll of your hips into his. “Please,” he begs, staring at you with wide, wet eyes.
He sobs, gazing at you with a lovesick expression. “You wanna cum?” You ask, voice foreign to your own ears.
Brahms’ neck seems like it’ll break from the force of his nod. “Yes, wanna—”
You recall the way he held you down, forcing you to take every inch of the cock you were now claiming for yourself. “Not yet,” you decline.
You smirk at the sad noise he makes as he complies. “Pleasepleaseplease, let me cum, I’ll be good,” he pleads.
You hum, eyes fluttering closed as you swivel your hips against his, grinding the mushroom tip of his cock deep into that sweet spot. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur breathlessly. “You’ve already misbehaved more than once.”
“I’m sorry, sososorry, I- I won’t do it again!”
You coo approvingly, sliding a hand into his sopping wet curls and tugging his head back, nipping at the taut column of his throat. “You promise?” You murmur against his skin.
You hem and haw like you’re still thinking about it when you’re moments away from breaking yourself. “Look at me,” you order.
Brahms forces his teary eyes open, gazing at you like it hurts. “I’m in charge here,” you declare. “I decide if you get to cum, how and when.”
Brahms nods. “If you misbehave, you get punished, understand?”
Another despairing nod and you feel a giddy sense of satisfaction.“Say it,” you order.
“I won’t— won’t cum without your— your permission.”
Your smile is sadistic and so is the way you clench around him. “Good boy.” You pull him closer and kiss him, smothering the broken sound he lets out with your tongue.
Brahms gasps like he’s drowning as your name dragged from his throat. “My handsome boy,” you purr before placing both your hands on his hairy chest.
Brahms’ answering moan is ragged and his wrecked expression as he submits to your will is all you need. “Now cum.”
Brahms howls, spine so rigid you’re afraid it’ll snap as his back arches underneath you, shooting hot, furious spurts of cum against your walls, the wet glide of your bodies getting even filthier as he empties himself into you.
He still looks pretty soaked with sweat, tears, and drool. You suspect there might be something wrong with you when the sight fills you with pride. You lay your head on his chest, the galloping sound of his heart against your ear lulling your fatigued body to sleep, and think nothing of it.
Brahms comes back to himself nearly an hour later, dazed eyes drawn to the warmth on his chest. He stares at you until he’s choking on the feeling burning its way through his chest. He holds you against him as he sits up, scooping you into a bridal carry; you’re small in his arms despite the way you took control of him earlier. He’s still a bit dazed as he carries you into the master bedroom.
You blink your eyes open by the time he’s sinking both of your sore bodies into the marble bathtub and he marvels at each expression crossing your face: confusion, shock, pleasure and then a smug approval that sends a shiver down his spine as you unflinchingly meet his infatuated gaze.
His breath catches when you cup his face in your small palm, stroking his scar with a murmur of “Good boy,” before falling back asleep in his arms. After you’re both clean and dry, he lays you on the bed that once belonged to his parents before standing back up. He has every intention of returning to bed once he’s finished cleaning up.
Hello!! I love ur works, I was just wondering if you could do Brahms with a S/O who's from southern USA and really good and gardening, but if someone unwanted comes onto the property they, with zero hesitation kills them and says something about using the body for fertilizer? Sorry if it's too dark but I NEED to see this lmao, have a good day/night!
A/N: why is moving the most stressful thing ever??? Like how many more measuring tapes do I have to misplace before I officially crash out?
Warnings: Fem!Reader, southern!reader, slasher content so like...death obvi...hacking up a person, blood, gore, etc. NSFW, cunnilingus, watching/liking being watched, heavy dirty talk, kitchen sex, squirting
Moving across the world for a landscaping job at an abandoned and potentially haunted, murder house was not something you thought you would ever do. However, the minute you arrived at the beautiful estate, you knew it needed you. Other than the outside looking like an overgrown thicket, the inside of the house was neat, clean and organized.
And very not abandoned.
"The add said no one lived here." Was the only thing you could say when you first met the lean, rich, pompous asshole who enjoyed hiding in the walls.
"No one does." Was all he replied with before handing you an envelope with more money than you'd ever had in your bank account at one time. His eyes watched you carefully, taking in your every move as you accepted the envelope and nodded.
"You some kind of ghost?" You asked skeptically, looking him over and noting the mess of hair on his head as well as peeking out from under his mask. What a weirdo, you thought.
The male disregarded your question, sighing as though the conversation was boring him. "You can take the first room on the second floor. Use whatever tools that are in the shed or go into town and buy what you need." His thick accent and serious tone gave you no room for commentary before he turned and stalked off into the house.
From that day on, the first two months of living in the gorgeous house was...interesting. You spent a couple days becoming familiar with the area and gathering equipment before digging in. You started in the back of the house, whacking away at dried shrubs and vines that were turned to dust when you touched them. A long ride on the lawnmower and use of a weedwhacker helped clear up the overgrown grass and smaller weeds in the yard.
You would wake up every morning with the sun and stop working when it would set. Muscles ached and the shower was filled with dirt and grime every night when you washed away your hard work. It took months before you finally got to where the house was ready for life. All the trash, dead plants, rat traps, and other junk was gone.
With a sigh, you stretched and flipped through the catalogue for the local market, eyeing flowers and shrubs to add to your list. From your spot on the couch in the living room, you couldn't see Brahms behind you, but you felt him. "Why didn't you clean your own yard?" You asked aloud, hearing his footsteps round the couch. You watched as he sat next to you, waiting for his response.
You two had an odd relationship. He stalked you. Watching you every minute of the day but he hardly ever spoke to you. Occasionally, you would catch him lurking in the hallway or in the process of retreating back to his walls, but he never made an effort to converse.
"I don't like dirt." He replied, looking at you. His piercing eyes made your stomach flip.
"Why the mask?" Your question caught him off guard and he looked away for a moment, thinking.
"None of your business." Brahms said and you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking back at your catalogue. You noted the way he watched you, sitting next to you close enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off of him in the chilly house. "The yard," he started, making you look at him. "It looks lovely."
You smiled, "I'm not even close to being done. Here, pick out some flowers." Placing the catalogue in his lap, you felt your heart leap at the compliment he gave you. It was your turn to watch him as he flipped through the pages, his long fingers tucking between the paper as he looked. Beautiful hands...you thought to yourself, your eyes making their way to his chest. The dark curls of hair peeked out from underneath his shirt and you wanted nothing more than to touch him in that moment.
His mask couldn't contain the beard he was growing and your eyes wandered to his hair which was its usual curly mess. "Let me cut your hair." You stated, eyes locking with his as he turned to look at you.
He assessed the situation for a moment before closing the catalogue and standing up. "Just trim." He replied, walking to the kitchen and pulling a chair up to the sink. Rummaging through a drawer, he found kitchen scissors and handed them to you.
"The mask," You said softly, watching him shed his cardigan.
Brahms stood still for a second but reached to his face and slid the mask off, keeping himself turned away from you. Neither of you said anything as he sat in the chair and leaned back, resting his neck on the edge of the sink. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him. Knowing that if you said anything, you could scare him off, you bit your lip and turned the water on, letting it get warm before bringing the nozzle to his scalp.
It took everything in him to control his desires the minute your fingers touched his head. The feeling of you taking care of him like this made his mind fuzzy with emotions he wasn't sure about. The fantasies he'd created in his head about you were nothing compared to this moment. The way you smiled at him in the living room had made him seek your happiness; your eyes lighting up in a way that made his chest hurt. Despite you knowing little about him, he knew you like the back of his hand. That's what happens when you watch someone for months- you learn them.
When you finished washing his hair, you used a hand towel to dry it a bit before letting him sit up. "I need to grab a comb, hold on." You stated, running upstairs for a moment before reappearing and beginning to work on trimming his hair. The only sound was the snip of the scissors as you cut away. "Can I ask what happened?"
Brahms said nothing, keeping still. "A fire. Happened when I was a boy." He finally replied.
You hummed in acknowledgement and dusted the hair snipping's from his neck and shoulders before moving around his front. "I'm cutting this too." You told him, gently touching his jaw and tilting his head up so you could see him. Brahms noticed the way your eyes kept glancing towards his burn mark as you trimmed up his beard. "Done." You stated, setting the scissors in the sink and brushing away some of the cut off hair.
Brahms reached out and grabbed your wrist making you freeze. His thumb traced circles on your pulse as he slowly brought your palm to his cheek where the burn mark was. He was letting you touch him. So you did.
Your soft fingertips gently moved over his scar, passing around his blinded eye and down towards his lips. Beautiful, kissable, pink lips.
As if reading your mind, Brahms tugged you down, letting you sit on his lap, his hands resting on your thighs before one cupped your face. "Brahms," you breathed out, watching his pupils expand at the sound of his name on your lips.
"Even if you tell me to stop, I won't." He warned, his fingers at the nape of your neck tugging you into him. His lips found yours in a kiss that was nothing but hunger. He was warm and tasted like tea with honey that he drank every morning and evening. You wanted to devour him.
Your hands ran through his hair, tugging him closer, breasts pressed against his chest as his palms found the globes of your ass and squeezed. A soft moan left your mouth, swallowed by his tongue as it traced along yours. You could feel his cock under your cunt, and you ground down, wanting to feel him more. Cold fingers traced under your shirt, moving up to your breasts and cupping them, rolling your nipples and toying with them like an instrument.
Breaking the kiss, you threw your head back as his teeth found your neck, groaning as your cunt dragged over his sensitive cock. "Fuck you're beautiful," he grunted, sucking marks into your skin before pushing your shirt up and unclasping your bra. He wasted no time sucking a nipple into his mouth, noting how you twitched and let out a moan. "I watch you at night sometimes when you forget I'm here," He starts, standing up suddenly and setting you on the kitchen table. "Watch the way you touch yourself, fuck yourself. Coming all over those pretty fingers." Brahms breathed, taking your shirt off and watching your nipples pebble from the cold.
"I don't forget- I know you're there." You pant, watching him stand straight and stare down at you.
"Show me." He demands, moving to sit back in his chair and unzipping his pants. Heat flooded your body all over again and you made quick work of your bottoms, spreading your legs wide and letting him look at you. "Fuck." He growled, tugging his cock out and reaching forwards, tracing two fingers through your folds.
"So fucking wet," he moaned, using your juices to lube up his cock as he lazily tugged it. "Make yourself come." He snapped and you nodded, reaching between your legs and circling your clit.
His eyes swallowed your every move as one hand moved to your breasts, tugging at your nipples and the other dipped into your pussy. A soft moan left you as you slowly fucked your fingers, hips rolling to grind your clit on your palm. You watched as he moved his hand on his cock, circling the tip a couple of times, the other hand gripping the base. "Faster," he groaned, watching your juices drip onto the table. You moved your hand faster, your clit sensitive and your chest heaving as you humped your palm.
Your thighs twitched and his cock was leaking profusely by the time he snapped, standing and shoving your hands out of the way. Your back arched off the table the minute he shoved two of his long fingers inside your aching pussy and sucked your clit into his mouth. "Oh my god, Brahms!" You shouted, gripping his hair and practically riding his mouth and fingers.
"You taste so fucking good," he growled, spitting on your cunt and spanking it lightly, before sucking and licking at your clit again. "You're gonna come right? I can feel you sucking my fingers, baby, fuck-" Brahms said, his finger relentlessly pounding your pussy, his other hand coming up and rubbing on your clit fast enough that you came within seconds. Mouth open, screaming and breathless, your body twitched against him as you came hard, squirting on his hand and cock. "Good fucking girl, fuck that's hot," he groaned moving to kiss your neck softly, tongue trancing your nipples before he removed his fingers from your pussy.
All you could do was stare at him as he soothed you down from your high. Who was this man? The one who barely talked to you the past months now had you pinned underneath him and was slapping his cock on your clit. The filthy things he said...the way he played your body...he blew your mind.
Your mind worked to form words but as soon as you opened your mouth, a sharp knock came from the front door. Brahms went completely still, his cock head pressed against your entrance. You both stared in silence as the doorbell rang followed by another series of knocking. "Get dressed, we'll finish this later." He said through grit teeth. Moving off of you, he tugged his pants back on, hissing at the feeling of shoving his hard cock back in.
You quickly got dressed and made your way to the front door. "Yes?" You snapped, opening the door to find a nearly bald salesman standing there with a bleached smile.
"Sorry to bother you ma'am but I am here to talk to you today about selling your wonderful home." His smile made you shiver and you sighed.
"Not interested-"
"I could see how fast this place would sell! Add some nice fresh flowers and maybe new gravel for the driveway." He interrupted. You heard a low growl come from behind the door and you stepped outside, shutting it behind you.
"Flowers? There was a murder here, no one will buy this place even if I wanted to sell, which I don't." You commented, watching the man shake his head in laughter and make his way towards a patch that was ready for new soil.
"People forget about that- it was years ago. I know people who are interested as we speak; looking for all the land this property comes with-"
"Land that doesn't produce. The soil here is shit." You snapped, a curtain moving in the nearby window at the sound of you raising your voice.
"Nothing a few bags of good fertilizer won't fix!" He said with a cheerful laugh and you groaned.
Your eyes caught the sight of the shovel leaning against the side of the house. Fertilizer would help, but the last time you went to town they were out and the next delivery isn't for a few days. The salesman continued to ramble on about the property history and price in value increase as your brain worked.
Your eyes caught Brahms' in the window and suddenly it clicked. Dead things make decent fertilizer. Like animals...or people.
"Where is your car?" You asked, looking towards the driveway.
"No car ma'am, I rode a bike here." He said with a confused look.
"Alone?" You asked, walking calmly to the shovel and picking it up. The salesman went stiff and you heard the front door open. As soon as the man turned to look at the door, you swung, hitting him in the back of the head.
Brahms stood there staring at you with a look you couldn't decipher as you watched the man twitch, pained moans coming from him before they eventually stopped. "Good fertilizer." You stated, reaching down and grabbing the man's ankles, dragging him towards the back of the house.
There you removed his clothes, grabbed an axe from the shed and braced yourself. "You've killed before." Brahms said, watching as you brought the axe down, cutting almost through his left leg right under the knee.
"Why do you think I needed a job across the world?" You replied, bringing the axe down again to sever the limb. "Are we good or do you need to feed the plants on the other side of the house?" Your eyes met his and for a moment Brahms swore he came in his pants. The blood speckled across your face, neck, arms and hands made you look menacing. He saw it in your eyes though, the same feeling he had when he killed. Excitement- the thrill.
"Who do you think made this a murder house?" He mocked back, reaching for the limb and throwing it in the dirt.
You smiled softly, pausing for a moment to grab the front of his cardigan and pull him in for a kiss. "Good. Now help me?" You asked as you brought the axe down again.
tw: no warnings, although one brief mention of reader being AFAB. slight NSFW (if you squint)
enjoy heheheheheheh I love making this man squirm. also i am in my Christmas feels and it’s not even December sorry not sorry.
*~*~*
The *second* she pulls the sweater out of the bag, Brahms *freezes*.
He backs up immediately, eyes wide behind his mask. “No.” The word comes out sharp, final—like he’s already plotting his escape route through the walls if necessary.
She doesn’t falter for a second. Instead, she grins—that same mischievous grin that always spells trouble for him—and takes a step forward with the sweater held out like some kind of peace offering turned weaponized holiday cheer. “Come on,” she wheedles, voice dripping with faux sweetness as she advances further into his space until he hits the wall behind him (literally). “It matches mine!” She tugs at her own equally ridiculous green and gold monstrosity for emphasis before wiggling her fingers in front of his face where they clutch onto fabric salvation (or doom).
He swallows hard; throat bobbing visibly beneath porcelain edges when realization dawns: there is no way out this time. because those are matching sweaters meant specifically to be worn together…which means resistance will only delay his inevitable surrender rather than prevent it altogether, given how relentless she tends to get when determined enough about things involving holidays or him being forced into anything remotely festive against typically reclusive tendencies...but may the gods help anyone who tries telling HIM admitting defeat aloud! So instead?
A last-ditch effort emerges via hissed whisper through gritted teeth while glancing around desperately as though seeking divine intervention:
***"I hate you."***
(He does not.)
She laughs, all bright and sparkling, like she knows damn well he's a goner and is enjoying how fast he's crumbling. One hand still clutching the offensive sweater like it's the *prize*, she puts the other on her hip—head tilted to the side in that way that always manages to make him feel like she's got a direct line to his very *soul*.
“Liar,” she teases, eyes gleaming with mischief as she presses in even closer until the sweater is all but draped right over his chest.
He can feel the heat of her body now—seeping through layers of fabric and warming his skin. His heart is thrumming hard enough that he's half-worried she'll hear it hammering away behind his ribs, and he curses his own body's involuntary reaction to her proximity.
He tries to glare—*really* tries—but it's hard to be intimidating when he's pinned to the wall like a goddamn fly in a web. He settles on a half-hearted growl instead, eyes narrowing in a half-hearted attempt at a scowl.
"...This is stupid."
She just grins, utterly undeterred by his gruff protests. Slides a hand down his chest. His breath hitches involuntarily—an involuntary strangled sound that makes him feel goddamn *weak* in a way he hates, even as some primal, possessive side of him can't help but be stupidly aroused by how damn close she is. He wants to grab her, drag her even closer, press her against the wall and show her who exactly she belongs to...but then she's teasing him with the sweater again.
“Please?”
The single word—spoken in pleading tones that are as earnest as they are manipulative—is almost enough to crack him then and there. But he bites his tongue, refusing to give in *that* easy, even when she's so damn close he can smell the faintest scent of her perfume. He looks like a trapped animal now—all twitchy tension and barely restrained need—and he's so goddamn tempted to just throw caution to the wind and just take what he wants.
“I’ll show you my boobs,” she whispers in his ear.
His entire body *jolts*—the words like a live current running through him. He's already breathing fast, but it ratchets up to a damn near-hyperventilation when she moves *even closer*, pressing up against his body so he can feel every single *curve* and *edge* of her. His fingers clench into fists against the wall, and he swears his brain just flat-out shuts down for a minute. because at the end of the day, he is just a man. A big, burly, sour, grumpy, stinky, man.
He's just gaping now, completely lost in the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his damn chest.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But you have to promise.”
Her eyes light up at that. She's got him now, she knows it, and her grin gets even wider. Her hand slides from the sweater to rest against his chest instead, finger tracing idly back and forth across firm muscles beneath his shirt, like she's staking a goddamn *claim*.
“Promise,” she murmurs, hand on heart, leaning in even closer until all he can see and smell and *feel* is her. He waits, his eyes darting between her and anywhere else in the room, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.
“But you have to promise too.”
Gods, he's such a goddamn *goner.*
His hand clenches against the wall again, fingers leaving white-knuckled indents in the plaster. He's still struggling to find his goddamn voice, but he swallows the last bit of stubbornness and *hisses* out a strangled “promise” that manages to sound even more ragged than he feels.
He's not just losing at this point—he's goddamn *losing hard,* and he can feel the way his control is starting to unravel with every passing second.
She smirks in triumph, quickly peeling off her own sweater and tossing it aside with a reckless abandon that makes his breath catch.
“See?” she purrs, voice low and teasing as she guides the *horrendous* Christmas sweater over his head—forcing him to lift his arms like a child being dressed by an overly eager parent. The jingle bells chime obnoxiously as the fabric settles over him, the snowflakes garish against the dark of his usual attire.
He stands there for a moment—stiff and utterly *mortified*, face burning beneath his mask—before glaring down at himself in abject betrayal. “…I regret everything” he mutters darkly, but even he can't disguise the way his voice cracks on it.
(Not when she's already laughing, bright-eyed and flushed from victory.)
(Not when she leans up to press her lips to where porcelain meets skin below his jawline with whispered praise: “So pretty.”)
(And certainly not when he feels himself sinking further into this hopeless warmth anyway.)
This is literally just tooth-rotting fluff… Brahms has my heart <3
Pairing: Brahms x Reader
Prompt: first time in the snow!!!
tw: none
~*~*~
The moment they step outside, Brahms *stops dead* in his tracks—like he’s just now realizing that snow is *cold,* and the outside world is vast, and there are birds chirping in a way that feels obnoxiously cheerful for his current mood.
He glares at the pristine white landscape like it’s personally offended him. “No.”
She doesn’t even blink—just bends down, scoops up a handful of snow, and *yeets* it directly at his chest before he can react. The impact makes a satisfying *thwump* against the thick fabric of his coat—and then there's silence.
Brahms stares down at the snow clinging to him like he’s been betrayed on some deep, spiritual level. His head lifts slowly to look back at her with something dangerously close to murderous intent in those dark eyes behind the mask...
Then she beams at him—all bright laughter and rosy cheeks from cold—and suddenly all fight drains out of him because oh no she looks adorable what the hell why does she get away with this EVERY TIME?
(Still… revenge is necessary.)
(For pride. Or honour. Whatever.)
So he very carefully bends down… gathers a perfectly compacted snowball between gloved hands… aims with terrifying precision honed from years lurking unseen within walls where aim was everything when tossing distractions into rooms far below just right so people wouldn't look too closely--
And nails her square between shoulders as she flees giggling towards the treeline screaming “YOU CHEATED THAT WAS A SNIPER SHOT” while flailing dramatically into the drift like a fallen soldier struck mid-charge despite being nowhere near an actual warzone which honestly?
Dramatic but fair. (because damn if man isn't unnaturally good throwing things after a lifetime of practice; never getting caught moving objects around the house unnoticed before now. And it’s all truly turned against HER specifically today of all days smh. betrayal truly knows no bounds huh--)
